Illustration by Brooklin Holbrough
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Long ago, Joseph went unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem. He travelled with his pregnant wife Mary. And there was no room for them at the inn.
Last December, my husband, daughter and I went unto the town of Wingham, Ont., to celebrate Christmas with our kin. We made the journey on Dec. 23 because the wise men who forecast weather predicted the storm of a century.
And lo, on Dec. 24 the storm came to pass and many were stranded in Wingham, cars upended in a ditch or buried beneath drifts two storeys high.
And there was no room at the Wingham Inn.
My sister’s phone begins to ring, friends who live in unreachable areas asking if she and her husband would take in their guests, now stranded nearby. With no hesitation, they opened their arms and their hearts. She rushes to make beds and put together another meal. Shortly they arrive, a Russian man, woman and their small son, from Toronto. Later, a tall man and his tall son from Hamilton, also their dog, deaf and blind but able to smell. The next day a tall woman with a tall Australian poodle mix.
For three days in Huron County, the storm howls and twists and blinds and creates grotesque snow banks. Roads disappear. The strangers cannot leave. The authorities close the invisible roads.
I do not want to spend Christmas with a group of strangers. I want to hug my kin, laugh with them and hear their stories. I do not want politeness and pleasantries and awkward small talk.
On the first evening, my sister takes the Russian man’s coat and tries to hang it up. She staggers, almost unable to lift it, asks what is in the coat. The man says it is a bulletproof coat. He says that the streets of Toronto are no longer safe. Not only does he wear his bulletproof coat, he says, he always carries bear spray and a knife.
From the man’s wife, we learn that the pair is getting divorced. She says this while ripping open a large bag of potato chips, handing it to their eight-year-old son and directing him to leave the table and eat on the couch.
Later, I will ask my sister whether we are safe with this man in the house. She says that she knows the family that he is on his way to visit and there has never been a problem.
The next morning, my brother-in-law makes breakfast for all of us. Bacon, eggs, a frittata, toast, various jams, clementines, dark blue grapes. Steaming coffee. The Russians do not appear. They go out on the road, trying to leave. They return at lunchtime, having succeeded in getting their car irrevocably stuck.
After lunch, I sit down near the tall man. It turns out that he is a retired emergency room doctor, and one of the nicest and most interesting conversationalists it has ever been my luck to encounter. I am ashamed of my negative thoughts of the previous day.
My husband falls in love with the little dog who is 17 years old. The dog has chosen for his bed the couch my husband always sits on. The dog wrestles with the knitted white covering, chews at it, finally drags it close to my husband, snuggles into it and closes his eyes. My husband’s face is beatific. Later that evening, dog at his side, he will sit up until after midnight talking to the son of the retired doctor.
Afternoon melts into evening. Drinks are served and we line up to fill our plates with a chicken dinner – stuffing and all the trimmings. The Russians reappear along with another bag of potato chips. It too is given to the boy, while the rest of us feast.
Unexpectedly, the boy remarks, “My mother is too easy. She lets me do whatever I want.” Both mother and father laugh.
The next person to join us, the following day, is a tall woman with striking blue eyes and a tall dog. She is apologetic, embarrassed, even mortified to have interrupted (her word) our Christmas. She says she can surely find a room in town and take the dog with her. My sister insists that she stay, that dogs are as welcome as humans.
After the third day, the wind abates, the damaged vehicles are removed and the plows begin clearing the roads. Our daughter digs for two hours to uncover our car. The Russians appear at the door, tell my sister that their car has been freed and fixed and they have changed the bedding and restored the room to its original state. They embrace all of us and leave for Toronto.
One of our nephews arrives from Toronto and our cousins make it to Wingham. They have just finished eating a full Christmas dinner with other relatives, but they are able to eat a second one with us. Shovelling endlessly falling snow that is higher than your house will do that.
Last year, we had a remarkably different Christmas. Always welcome the stranger in need. My sister and brother-in-law were born knowing this. It’s a truth I need to learn over and over.
Marilyn Pilling lives in Hamilton.